


Sunshine of a Lonely Mind

by cardinaleyes



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, mormor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-17
Updated: 2017-04-17
Packaged: 2018-10-19 21:32:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10648470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cardinaleyes/pseuds/cardinaleyes
Summary: Believing his Boss has shot himself on the rooftop of St Barts, Sebastian Moran caves into doing something he never thought he would; see a therapist. Although, does it count as therapy if you're living in the memories of your own head and hardly saying a word to the only person in the room that is actually alive?





	Sunshine of a Lonely Mind

**Author's Note:**

> ''Sunshine in my brain  
> Is the lonely kind of pain  
> It's the sunshine  
> Of a lonely mind''

‘It’s a bit awkward for you this, isn’t it?’

Seb was surprised she’d said it first. It made him warm to her a fraction more, that she didn’t dance around the subject, that she said what she saw and saw what she said. ‘Yeah. Yeah, I guess’ Seb said, clearing his throat as he shifted uncomfortably in the chair.

‘Why don’t you start by telling me why you’re here? You didn’t make the appointment for nothing, after all. It _was_ you who made the appointment, wasn’t it?’

 _Who the fuck else would have made it for me?_   Seb thought, but he nodded in affirmative. Of course it was him who made an appointment for a fucking therapist, although admittedly he didn’t remember doing it.

It was something _He’d_ always said to him, a joke in passing; ‘tiger, you _really_ need to see a therapist about these suppressed childhood memories of yours. And while you’re there ask her about the psychology behind your arousal at being choked. I’m sure that’s not normal’. A thick Irish drawl, playful and bored at the same time, always a hint of seriousness behind his jokes. ‘You wouldn’t let me see a therapist, Boss. You wouldn’t let me talk to anyone but you. Anyway, you’re the source of all my problems’. And his Boss leaned down to where his tiger was lounging on the sofa, grasping his jaw hard in one hand so he could stare deep into his eyes; ‘correct’. And then a smirk. Playful again. So it was probably something to do with that. He got drunk, and was lounging on the same sofa, but there was no boss there to grab him by the chin and tell him to ‘get your shit together, Sebastian, you’re embarrassing yourself’. That’s when he must have emailed the therapist. More an act of stupidity and weakness than a cry for help, of course. Sebastian didn’t talk. Sebastian didn’t need help. Sebastian was fine. But he went anyway. Just to see.

‘So? There must be a reason you’re here today. Please, don’t be shy. I do this for a living remember’ the therapist laughed. Sebastian smirked from one side of his mouth to humour her, didn’t want to make out he was a total dick, like he was going to sit there like Apollo’s statue for the entire session, that he was – at one point – human. He’d looked her up and down when he came in, of course he had. Some instincts never leave a promiscuous, ex-army, heterosexual-with-one-exception sniper, and he had noticed her curves through her tight pencil skirt and blouse and appreciated the sharpness of her cheek bones and her pulled back hair, _easy for gripping_ , he used to say, and he still couldn’t help thinking it. But it was more of a shadow of a thought than a burning urge. He didn’t even think he’d be able to get it up if she offered herself on a plate. Not anymore. He was ruined. Still, He leers at Sebastian in his head, calling him a pervert and a dirty little boy. _I thought I’d fucked all thoughts of women out of you, Sebastian. Do I have to resurrect myself simply to teach you a lesson?_

‘I don’t really…talk. About stuff. Never have. Was brought up to just…keep quiet. So I do. I did. I mean, I met someone recently, and…I talked a bit more, but. Well not anymore. I don’t really know if I can do this’. Sebastian never made eye contact with the therapist, before becoming embarrassed at himself at what a fucking pussy he was becoming by even sitting here.

‘Not anymore? What happened to the person you talked to?’

It’s funny how hard it is to say it, really. This is someone who’s murdered countless people first-hand, who considers it a day off if one of his bullets hasn’t cascaded through someone’s skull, who can stand over the corpse of a father, husband, son and feel pride at a job well done, a boss made happy, and yet even saying the words out loud is an impossibility to him. ‘He’s gone’. And it’s stupid because he knows He’s dead. _Fuck_ , he can barely say his name, Jim, he knows Jim’s dead. Deceased. His heart doesn’t beat anymore, His eyes don’t blink, His hands don’t move, He’s dead somewhere and He’s gone and it doesn’t matter because he’ll never hear His voice again or feel His lips on his or a cold smack of a hand across his face, Sebastian _knows_ this and saying it won’t make it any more real than it is. Because it’s real. The cold realness of Jim’s absence is a weight Sebastian carries around with his rifle every day. _So why can’t he fucking say it?_  

He wishes he could, though, as the therapist presses gently, and if she presses any fucking further Sebastian will explode, he’ll explode. ‘Gone? As in, you don’t see him anymore or he’s passed-‘

She didn’t have time to finish her sentence before Sebastian nodded and his hand flexed up in reflex, making the dog tags around his neck jingle softly against one another. Lucky them. ‘That one. Although, I guess that one means I don’t see him anymore as well, right?’ A sad laugh, a laugh that says ‘ _I want to be anywhere else but here. I want to be in a grave, never coming out of an unconsciousness that I would at least be sharing with Him.’_

‘I’m sorry to hear that’. She meant it, and Sebastian nodded once. It was fine, she was sorry, she was fucking sorry, but she wasn’t the one going home to an empty apartment and an empty bed and a wardrobe full of shirts and suits and ties that still smelled like Him. They still fucking smell like Him. She doesn’t even know His smell. She doesn’t know what it is to be sorry. Fuck her.

‘Was he a friend? A lover?’

Sebastian laughed again, out loud, the first real laugh he’d felt in weeks. ‘God knows’.

He didn’t know if God knew, but he knew Jim didn’t know. And Jim hated not knowing. And Sebastian was the first thing Jim didn’t know about. And that infuriated Him. Because how did he feel about this 6ft5 muscular ex-army sniper who He’d hired because he was the best in the business, who’d eventually wormed his pretty little way into His bed and now smoked around His apartment and drank too much and swore too much but _fuck was he a good fuck and fuck did He like having him around_. Were they just friends? With benefits, obviously. Or _were_ they lovers? Boyfriends even? But Sebastian knew Jim would never even entertain the idea of something so domestic. And any suggestion that that’s what their relationship was resulted in his head crashing against the wall and a ‘don’t you think you’re special, Sebastian, because you’re not’. Which resulted in his cut being bandaged up by the same psychopath who’d caused it, his own personal unique way of apologising and, more importantly, an action without words that whispered _course you’re special, moron_.

‘So you were in an intimate relationship then?’ the therapist seemed to carry on as if Sebastian wasn’t involved in his own little side productions of memories, as if it was only the two of them in the room and she couldn’t see Jim grinning besides Sebastian about how _quaint_ it all was, such a _nice_ little office. Couldn’t she see Him? Sebastian shrugged. Which of course was a yes. They were in an intimate fucking relationship. Quite literally.

‘Well you clearly feel strongly about Him whether you know what to label it or not. Labels don’t change anything, not if you love someone. Did you love him, Sebastian?’

Did you love Him Sebastian? Did you? Sebastian hardly remembered running out of the office but he must have done, he was out on the street, he must have done. The traffic was rushing past beside him and his head was spinning and he nearly tripped out onto the road but he fell down instead, fell down and everything was still spiralling and he had the taste of vomit in his mouth and the feel of stinging tears on his face and he could barely see but fuck her, he thought. As he sat there on the pavement of the bustling London street, he thought _fuck her fuck her fuck her_ over and over again until he could make it up and back to their – or his – cold hollow apartment. Who’d have thought therapy would be so effective. He’d never go again. Fuck her.

......................................................................................................................................

She’d never had a walkout before. She felt strangely shaken up as she closed the door of her office, adjacent to the room he’d ran from. She’d had people get up as if they were going to do it of course, slam their fists down on the armchair and stand up so quickly she thought they’d get whiplash, but she talked them down, coaxed them back into their seat. With this one, this tall guarded man, there was no chance. He’d gone before she’d even had chance to call his name, apparently stopping to smash a mirror in reception before disappearing into the London dusk. Her telephone rang on her desk, and she breathed in deeply before answering it. To seem composed. Professional.

‘Hello, Mr Moriarty’ she answered.

‘How was he?’ Short, sharp, always a hint of anger in the Consulting Criminal’s voice.

‘Bad, I’m afraid. He didn’t complete our session. He walked out, I didn’t have chance to press him very far unfortunately. But enough to know he’s not in a good way.’

A rare throat clearing before the voice on the other end of the line replied with: ‘Okay. I wouldn’t expect you’ll see him again so our contract is terminated. Remember what happens if you breathe a word of this to anyone, Karen.’ Trying to sound playful. In control of his emotions. Static as he goes to put the phone down…

‘Wait. Mr Moriarty, wait.’ She knew he was about to hang up and she’d never hear from Him again, this mysterious stranger who’d hired her as soon as He found out His pet had made an appointment, for a luxurious sum of money of course, just to report back to Him everything and anything Sebastian said. Patient confidentiality means nothing in replacement of thousands. But she was still a therapist, still got into this job to do good, and wasn’t used to this world of eat or be eaten. ‘If I could just say one thing.’

‘Go ahead’ Jim said, hiding his surprise at this contradiction well.

‘This man, this Sebastian Moran, clearly loves you and clearly thinks you’re dead. And if you’re not careful _he_ very soon will be. If I could suggest, politely, Mr Moriarty, that you let him know otherwise. This kind of torture just isn’t fair. It’s killing him. You’re killing him.’

The line was dead on the other side, and Jim Moriarty, far far away from London’s lights and sounds stood there in a dark navy suit with one hand in his pocket and the other tightly clutching his mobile, a look of thunder in his black eyes. He wanted her killed. He wanted this bitch, this woman who thought she could ‘politely suggest’ something to him of all people, after he’d paid her, killed. He wanted her gone. Wanted someone on a roof outside her office building to send a bullet quickly, peacefully and fucking ‘politely’ through her brain the second she left work that day. The only problem was, he did not have his sniper. And his sniper did not have him.


End file.
